My Heart is a Knot of Snakes Claire Robbins (bio) My heart is a knot of snakes. They move, a roiling ball, but they remain tangled. I have grown used to the motion in my chest. While I wouldn’t say these snakes protect me, I find myself listening to their movement—when it quickens or dies down. When my snakes wake me up in the middle of the night, I practice stringing my words together. Maybe this way I will have enough to say during the day. My mouth would prefer to fall closed forever, but the snakes keep me up to expectations. I line rows and rows of words up, like stringing beads together. Then I pull the words away and begin in a different order. I practice again and again until the words look, sound, and feel right. Then sometimes I can sleep. Or when my snakes wake me up, I imagine what I will wear the next day—I will myself to decorate my body in new ways. I combine outfits and hairstyles until I settle on one that expresses the textures, the contrasts, the colors, the flair my snakes demand. Because something inside me would prefer to fade, but my snakes demand attention. Here is the problem: I was taught that I would grow up to be a woman, and I was taught that snakes strike fear in the hearts of women. I was taught so much trash as a child: that I was fearfully and wonderfully made; that I was born totally depraved; that women came from the rib of Adam; that the Lord unfolded a sheet of forbidden animals and commanded, eat. I was taught to burn down a house that contained a speck of mold; I was taught that if my parents trained me up in the path of the Lord, when I am old, I will not stray. I was taught to memorize Psalm 23 and Romans 12: your rod and your staff, they comfort me; therefore, I urge you to offer your bodies as living sacrifices; and Romans 8: the mind governed by flesh is death. How could this not harm a child? As a child, I learned lies about my heritage—that one ancestor settled along Lake Michigan and married a Native princess. Every time I am stuck in my writing it is because I come from a long line of liars. I struggle to find real connection to the earth and to the people who came before me. Colonizers came before me. I was taught my ancestors lived in Ireland before they came to the United States. We ate corned beef and cabbage in March. I was taught St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland, but some of those snakes—and I know this is true because I feel it is true—hatched [End Page 89] later in me. I have fed and nurtured my snakes. ________ I meet some people from work for a drink; I am working on being more social. After two beers, I feel my mask beginning to slip, my words don’t come as expected; my snakes peer out from inside me. This is why I cannot be around people. There is something wrong with me to where the way I see myself and the way other people see me do not line up. Correction—there is nothing wrong with me; I am trans. I always saw myself as very gender neutral, but many people in our society do not have the ability to see anyone as separate from gender. My outside presentation has swung from fairly feminine by a kind of default, to clothing and other decorations I see as neutral of gendered signifiers, to what I see as masculine. But others only see me as the gendered body I was born in. Some of the people from work apologize for using wrongly gendered language with me. One colleague tells me he needs to practice using my pronouns, and he does need to do this. I practice using gender neutral pronouns and language, like most queer people. Practicing this makes it come easier. But what my colleague doesn’t acknowledge is...